History
This Myrian’s name has not always been Dayvon. Time and fate will change all things as they see fit. A Myrian is not made in a day or a year or even a decade; a myrian is made is never complete. They are always building and breaking down. A myrian may find himself with a bountiful large family or they may find themselves alone, surrounded by those they feel no connection too.
This Myrian has always been alone. When he was born he had a different name, it was Deyla of the broken fist, and his tribe was not respected in Myrian culture. They fought no great battles, they found no glory. They were a nameless and invisible tribe in Myrian lands. They held no prestige in Taloba, and therefore no power. Still, the child who would become Dayvon became a man immersed in the full brutality of Myrian culture. He hunted enemies, he killed mercilessly, he worshiped blindly, and he obeyed without question. He has tasted the flesh of his enemy, and he relished it. By the time he became a man and bonded with his tiger, he was a common Myrian monster.
Then something happened.
Dayvon was 20 years old. He been with many different women, some of them prominent, some of them not so prominent, but all of them beautiful. In his heart he felt nothing for these women. When it came to mating and sex, he had simply been doing his duty, but deep down he was bitter. He felt just as alone as he had as a child. Duty did not fill the longing in his heart.
He was alone in the tropical wilderness, in the dead of summer, under and oppressive sun. The animal he had been hunting was wounded and easy to track. It rumbled through the jungle smashing delicate vegetation and smearing its blood on tree trunks. It would be an easy kill and a good meal for his small tribe. He moved through the jungle with predatory grace. It was his land and he moved swiftly through it. The further he penetrated into the forest the more delirious his victim seemed to get. It stumbled and crashed through the forest with more carelessness. He was upon it in a matter of minutes. It lay in the dense underbrush wheezing from the arrow lodged in its lung. He slit its throat as fearful eyes stared up at him.
As he prepared the man for transport back to his village there was a stirring in the underbrush. In a heartbeat he had his bow loose and an arrow knocked and pulled.
There, standing in a clearing was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had golden hair and icy blue eyes that seemed to stare right through him. Her skin was ivory, lighter than the clouds themselves, a flawless pearl in the heart of chaos, beauty incarnate. Her fearful eyes darted from Dayvon to the man who would soon be dinner for his village. She didn’t even make a sound, she simply ran.
At first Dayvon did nothing. He was awe struck, paralyzed for a minute as his arrow drooped and fell to the ground. It was there, right there in that single moment that he saw himself through the eyes of another and he died inside. A goddess had looked upon him and he had been judged. He wanted to run after her to tell her that it was all a mistake, but he knew it was a lie. He realized right then and there that he was a monster that his whole race was awful. That day cast of his culture, his family and his goddess. That day he got his soul back.
He searched for tracks but could find none. It was like the woman hadn’t been there at all. He buried the man he had been preparing to eat. Then he left his lands that night without a word to his tribe. Something snapped that night. He wandered the wilds of the jungle for weeks searching for her. He was an avid survivalist but the strain of isolation and harshness of the wilderness wear upon a man’s soul.
It is never easy to let something go, to abandon it completely, but that is exactly what Dayvon did. He changed his name, his clothes, his actions. Now he is simply another traveler of Mizahar. It had been five years since the encounter in the jungle, five years since he shunned his heritage, yet the savagery of a Myrian treads just beneath the surface. Dayvon worked as a mercenary for a few years, work that has always suited his race. His travels and searching have brought him across the far reaches of Mizahar, from the frozen north to the deserts Eyktol, all the while raiding pillaging and getting paid. He currently lives in Syliras, around Lisnar, in the forest about a day’s ride to the city. He has never returned to Taloba.
